Can I Get That in Writing?
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: Life aboard the Mother of Invention had been pretty standard prior to the arrival of the Sarcophagus. Now, reflecting on the sorry state of affairs that has become his life ever since a little green cockbite began living in his head, York wonders if it's too late to submit his two weeks' notice. Introspections of the relationships between the Freelancers and their A.I.
1. AI Appreciation Day

If we're gonna make this a story about humans and A.I.s, then who better to start us off than Sir Seethes-A-Lot and his noble steed, the respective posture children for the genre?

Seeing as the Alpha was based off of everything the Director ever was, you'd think the guy would have felt some affection for his creation―you know, before he tortured it into insanity. Here's my attempt to expand on that stray thought, before it derails any further. First time I've ever written for either of these characters, so this ought to be interesting.

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**Summary:** In which the Director comes to the conclusion that a cat is far less demanding than an arrogant, preening, attention-seeking computer program.

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**Chapter One: A.I. Appreciation Day**

Let it never be said that Dr. Leonard Church was above pettiness.

Especially where his job—pulsating asterisk and all—was concerned.

For how quiet and self-restrained the sound was, the sigh might as well have been nonexistent. Not for the first time that afternoon the man paused mid-keystroke and pushed away from his computer, reaching up to press at his temple, if only to ease the pressure that had been steadily accumulating behind his eyes.

Migraines, as it turned out, were one of the few ailments that modern medicine had yet to cure, the others being a.) the common cold and b.) hangovers.

The thought briefly occurred to him to pause from his work and fetch a glass of water, to at the very least temper the persistent throbbing akin to a jackhammer against his skull. Glancing at the nearly eye-level stack of files squatting on his desk sent a renewed wave of stubbornness through him. In the end martyrdom won out, and the Director settled on the alternative of written paperwork as opposed to computer work. (The alternative alternative was to simply chuck his personalized hell of a bureaucratic nightmare into the waste bin—tempting, especially when it sat only two feet from his chair.)

But no. Migraine-inducing paperwork it was.

Because _of course_ he had to cater to the tedium of biased politicians who considered themselves important enough to send a conga line of demands his way, with their _actual_ involvement beginning and ending with the words "public funding." Beyond that, it was a matter of satisfying the UNSC's need for proof that the Project was a concrete alien-deterrent, and not a black hole of resource consumption. If he didn't have to waste his precious time answering letters, then the Director could actually focus on said proof. It went without saying that realization was taking longer to sink into their heads than he would have liked.

Sighing, the wizened man reached over and plucked a leaflet from the top of the pile—an incident report, by the looks of it—and it set on the desk. The vertebrae in his neck shrilly protested when he leaned over his workspace to peer at the font, eyes darting back and forth over the text.

"Keep leaning that close and you're going to merge with the desk."

Thank God for all those years of yoga classes Allison had strong-armed him into, as it gave him a fair amount of self-control, enough that he didn't launch himself from his chair at the unexpected voice. Disgruntled, he shifted in his seat, hawk eyes homing in on the holographic projection now standing at the edge of his desk. "That was unnecessary."

The A.I. gave a light shrug. There was nothing innocent about the gesture. "Just sayin'."

At least there was one consistency in his routine that didn't involve distractions and mind games. "Alpha, command: run tomorrow's schedule and check my inbox."

Alpha tilted his head. "What, no, 'Hi, how's your day been'?"

_That didn't involve_ unexpected _distractions and mind games_, the Director silently amended. Inherent Flaw Number Two in his creation certainly presented no shortage of that. "Instruction: acknowledge last directive," he repeated.

The Alpha's _arrogance_ held a monopoly on the lofty title of Inherent Flaw Number One, currently making itself known in his holier-than-thou posture. "Where's the fire?"

Under the unrelenting stare the A.I. dimmed with an exasperated sigh. "Sheesh, fine. Okay, I've got two training matches scheduled for tomorrow, the first for 0900, the second at 1250. The morning session is a cooperative exercise. I decided to mix things up and partnered Agent Carolina with Agent South Dakota. Their opponents will be Agents North Dakota and Connecticut."

The Director absorbed that information with a contemplative frown. "A rather unusual matchup," the man at last conceded.

Again, Alpha sank into his hip and peered back up. "You said to change the variables. Not my fault you didn't specify which ones," the A.I. quipped. "Besides, this will be a good way to determine if they can play nice with their teammates."

"A rather crude way to word it, but true."

"Up next is Washington versus Wyoming."

The resident firearms specialists. A hitch in the scheduling that didn't escape his attention, and certainly couldn't have escaped Alpha's. Regardless, the Director pressed: "Both of them are ranged fighters. Unless cover is omitted, they will both continuously shoot at each other until they run out of ammo."

To that the A.I. brightened, both in luminosity and mood, tone turning smug. "Which is why I made it so that they won't be stationary the entire time. Kind of hard to take potshots while dodging automated turrets programmed to indiscriminately fire at anything giving off a temperature of 98.6°."

_Creative_. Not something the Director would ever admit to aloud, of course; his creation's ego was already one helium tank short of a zeppelin. "And?" he asked.

"I ran a hundred different calculations and determined that Agent Wyoming would win approximately eighty-seven out of one hundred times—under normal circumstances. Neither has historically done well with adapting to unexpected obstacles," Alpha rattled off. "This exercise is more about testing their ability to react and improvise, while still maintaining the former objective of eliminating the target. The results are inconclusive at this time."

Not completely unsurprising. While a competent soldier in his own right, Washington always fell short to Wyoming, whose numbers on the board edged him out by decimals. Still, he would have been lying if he said he wasn't curious about how well they'd fair tomorrow. Something he intended to watch in person, schedule permitting, of course. Habit found him reaching for a neighboring stack of papers and shuffling them. "Why such a large gap between matches?"

"Oh, that?" The blue silhouette regarded his fingertips. "Agent York requisitioned the room for a lockpick simulation, class: holographic. Not that it'll do him any good, seeing as the last thing he managed to pick successfully was his nose."

Once again the Director forcibly reminded himself that—as the Counselor had drilled (_droned_) into him—personality matrices could not be altered post-impression modelling, and _no_, the endless stream of sardonic commentary was not a coding defect, no matter how many times he had skimmed through his notes trying to find the section detailing unrepentant sarcasm. A miner had more success panning gold out of silt than he had extracting the information he wanted out of the never-ending peanut gallery. As if he didn't have enough headaches in his life right now, without fighting the illogical desire to find a way to duct tape the Alpha's mouth.

Instead, he settled on leveling the construct a withering look.

Unfazed as usual by the disapproval in his creator's glare, Alpha shrugged back at him, voice brimming with condescending. "Hey, it's not my fault the guy has a 32.7% success rate." When it became clear that he wasn't going to provide the obligatory counter-quip, Alpha shuffled his armored boots. "Does the schedule work for you?"

"It does. Continue."

"All right. Next…" As the A.I. spoke he strode across the desk's surface, making an abrupt ninety-degree turn in front of his computer. With what could only be described as a regally dismissive gesture, the hologram flicked his wrist, closing out of two tabs on his screen—something that the Director would tear his hair out over later when he discovered that he closed out of his work _without saving_—and pulled up his mailing list. "We've got a message from the Chairperson's assistant. Apparently the Oversight Sub-Committee wants us to send them an updated list of our inventories." A snort. "I think they're still bitching about the missing equipment and want to make sure we haven't sabotaged ourselves, the paranoid old—"

"_Alpha_." Last thing the Director wanted was for his creation to start habitually spouting obscenities, especially if the UNSC's prodding warranted an in-person tour of the ship. God knew what sort of impression that would leave on his superiors.

"What?" Finally Alpha turned to face him, chin hitched up in the air. "You can't tell me that you don't think that new 'one crashed Pelican per mission' policy is stupid. We're at war! Do they think if we ask the Covenant nicely they'll stop trying to shoot us out of the air because we have a quota to meet? That's like asking a rainstorm to not soak your brand new sweater."

Rather than give him the satisfaction of being right, the Director indirectly agreed, _grudgingly_, "He has been rather…pushy, as of late."

"You want me to send him an e-mail with a virus attached?" Alpha asked. "I can disguise it as junk mail."

What was even more distressing than the eagerness in the suggestion was the knowledge that he probably _would have_ done it, too, without prompting—or worse, if he didn't spell out the barbwire boundaries and dig several trenches, just in case the A.I. tried to claim that his creator wasn't specific enough. Regrettably not the first time the Alpha latched onto that loophole like a lamprey. "That won't be necessary," sighed the Director.

"Fun kill."

Vindictiveness wouldn't deter Hargrove. No matter how tempting.

"Just send him the necessary information," the Director ordered. He shot the little figure a warning look. "Without encrypting it."

Even bedecked in the Mjölnir armor, Alpha still managed to give off the impression of pouting. "Got it," he muttered under his breath.

"And you wonder why his department does not trust mine," the old man mused, an expression that was almost humored watching the A.I. sulkily carry out his task. "I'd almost think _you_ had something to do with it."

Once more Alpha resumed patrolling the length of his desk, deliberately pausing to skim a holographic hand over his stapler. "I have no idea what you're talking about." More flippantly, the computer program said, "Well it won't matter soon enough, seeing as they're sacking the Chairperson."

There was very little that the Director didn't know about or wasn't directly involved it. Suffice to say it caught him off guard, ransacking his memory and not being to recall hearing that. "…Where did you learn that information from?" he inquired carefully.

"Oh, you know." Alpha shrugged. "Places."

"The Counselor told you that he was retiring," the Director rejoined.

As the Alpha spoke he approached his paperclip container and peered inside. "Yeah. Retiring's a word. So is 'being peer-pressured to resign so as to not make a public scene.'"

He continued to watch the A.I. explore his workspace, poking and prodding whenever something caught his eye. "And what makes you so certain of that?"

Satisfying his curiosity (for now), Alpha stepped away from the tape dispenser and faced the Director. "The rumor mill. People talk."

_What people could he be possibly interacting with to overhear that_—_?_

The realization hit him.

Tone flatter than stale water, he drawled, "I'm glad to see you're spending your time wisely by _spying_ on my agents."

At least he knew it wasn't a lie; Alpha liked to boast about his accomplishments.

Sure enough, his prouder-than-a-peacock posture confirmed his suspicions, accompanied by a voice so pleased with itself that it dripped smugness. "What can I say? The walls have ears and eyes—or to be more exact, computer terminals and cameras. Not my fault they run their mouths in the hallways. And the mess hall." The Director simply stared as Alpha paused and considered, then, almost as an afterthought: "And the locker room."

"Surely there are more productive things you could be doing."

If his shoulders hadn't been holographic, the muscles would have been sore from how often the Alpha shrugged them. "Nothing wrong with a little reconnaissance, boss."

That almost made the Director bark an incredulous laugh. Almost. He liked to think he had more self-control than that. Instead, the man inched a little closer, looming over the A.I. with an arched brow. "And what intel could you possibly be gathering in the _locker room?_"

"…Stuff," Alpha replied, not quite meeting his gaze.

There was no resisting the sigh that managed to snake past his lips. For all intents and purposes the Director was content to let his creation do as he wanted—questionable motives aside—as long as he followed protocol and completed his assignments. So far that was holding true. This time he swore he heard something in his neck crack as he resumed hunching over his reports, intending on picking up where he left off. "Was that the only message?" he asked, not glancing up.

"Yep. Done and done," affirmed the A.I.

"Thank you, Alpha. Command: run numbers on the next mission again. Account for standard delays in communication and response time."

Which was where the conversation should have ended.

It _shouldn't_ have continued with the Alpha projecting himself on top of the paper, so suddenly that this time the Director did jerk back in surprise. Just in time he managed to catch his weight before his own momentum sent him sprawling on the floor. Alpha watched the Director as he steadied himself back into his chair with an autumn-crisp frown. "Speaking of the next mission… You know, I was thinking—seeing as Agent York's infiltration skills won't be improving any time soon, and the next objective requires stealth, maybe—just hear me out, okay?—maybe if the team had an _A.I._ capable of disabling locks without tripping the alarm…"

He knew where that line of thinking was going as soon as the avatar vocalized, and silenced him with a raised hand. Expression hard, he growled, "We've already spoken about this, Alpha. The answer is 'no.'"

"Oh, come on," Alpha protested, "it's not as if the agents haven't seen a Smart A.I. before! Just stick me in one of their suits, it'll be like I'm not even there."

Steel edged his reply. "The answer is _no_. End of discussion."

Undeterred, he shot back, "Speaking as a _very_ valuable military asset, I think my talents are being wasted on—"

"_Enough_."

It was the raised tone that made his wayward creation realized that he'd overstepped his boundaries, and quieted, helmet bowed a fraction. After a solid ten seconds of being subjected to the Director's glare Alpha finally spoke. "…Right. Should have figured as much."

"Your presence aboard this vessel is classified, Alpha." The Director steepled his hands. "The only two personnel who are privy to that information are—"

"You and the Counselor, I know." Resentment soured his tone.

"Precisely." Over the rim of his glasses he studied the A.I. "So you see why I cannot spare you for field missions."

"Yeah," came the foot-dragging agreement.

"Then I take it you will not broach the subject again?"

"No." Only beneath the hardened stare did Alpha modify his answer, albeit sarcastically. "_Sir_."

"Good." With that said and done the Director returned to his work. It was after he'd gotten three sentences into the incident report and jotted a note down in the margin did a pale blue glow ease into his periphery. Puzzled, the man lifted his head, regarding the flickering silhouette still lingering in the room. While he'd given no absolute dismissal, he had still anticipated on Alpha leaving. "I believe I gave you orders," he stated, not looking up. "Why are you still here?"

"What?" The faintest crackle of static curled in his voice. To the untrained ear Alpha sounded uncertain, nonchalant. To the trained ear there was the bittersweet appreciation for an actor who knew how to fool his audience. "Oh, uh. I was just wondering. So…how've you been?"

_That _got his attention. "Pardon?"

He glanced up in time to see Alpha—who had been pretending to watch his feet—return his stare with an offhand gesture. "You know. ¿Qué pasa? What's up? You've been in and out of briefings and conferences all afternoon, so I didn't get to really say hi, save for this morning when you were getting ready to take a shower. That reminds me, how's the rash? Did you get the ointment for it ye—"

"I. Am. Working."

"I can see that, and you're doing a _phenomenal _job at it."

Pointedly, the old man resumed his staring contest with the report, hoping the A.I. would take a hint. "These need to be filed by tonight. I don't have time for pleasantries."

"Oh. Well, maybe I can help."

It was only when he realized he'd reread the same sentence twice that the Director decided this problem needed to be nipped in the bud, now. Very, very slowly, he peeled himself from his hunched-over position, studying Alpha over the rim of his glasses. "Is there something that you _need_, Alpha?"

Mock-thought the A.I. lifted a finger to his chin. "A vacation would be nice," came the sardonic retort.

"You want a vacation?"

Snorting under his breath, Alpha straightened. "For _you_," he clarified, "not me. You're a hardworking guy, Director. But hardworking guys are still human—unless you're me, and can multitask for forty-eight hours straight—but see, that's my point. I think you need to take a break. Just step away from your desk, take a deep breath, recharge your mental batteries. Not even a full hour, like every sane functioning human being takes. Just thirty minutes should do the trick. And hey, if you're looking for company, I can save the analyses for later and—"

"I have a full schedule." Each syllable pronounced painstakingly. "A full, _unnegotiable_, schedule which requires my undivided attention."

"Well, what if I required your undivided attention?"

Temper dangerously close to spilling over, the Director shot Alpha a piercing look. "Do you?"

"Not right this second, but hypothetically speaking—"

His head throbbed.

"Alpha, command: _cease and desist_." Nearly all of the color had drained from the Alpha's hologram, until he was little more than a handful of flurries. Brooding silence accompanied the dejected wilt. Gripping his pen hard enough to feel metal dig into his palm, the Director braced against the desk, towering over the tiny apparition. "If you are looking for _entertainment_ then I suggest you return to your duties to keep yourself occupied. And should you finish that on time, then feel free to spend the remainder of the evening pursuing the ship's online database. But I need—to—finish. So unless it is a matter that urgently requires my presence, then _log off_."

Neither dare utter a word throughout the stalemate, his stern glare met with a visor whose pixelated glass emoted better than a flesh in how _offended_ it looked. When it became apparent that silence was the only answer he would be getting the Director resumed reading, thoroughly done with the interruptions, thank-you-kindly.

"…Hey, Director, did I tell you about this new idiom I learned the other day? _Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back_."

Apparently the universe wasn't done with him.

The A.I. didn't flinch when that serrated stare bore down upon him. "I'm familiar with it."

Rebounding with all the damn elasticity of a rubber band, Alpha chirped, his need for painkillers rising in direct proportion to the number of words coming out of the A.I.'s mouth: "Cats and A.I. have a lot in common. Cats have nine lives; A.I. live approximately seven to nine years. Cats were worshipped by Ancient Egyptians; A.I. were worshipped by certain alien societies. And"—he tilted up his helmet—"we both have a tendency to get into things we shouldn't when we're bored."

Certainly not about to be cowed by a creature whose height (and value) was less than a dollar bill's, the Director narrowed his eyes. Softly, he queried, "Are you planning on doing something that you _shouldn't_, Alpha?"

Blue luster brimming in full, the hologram took a step closer, rebellious stance contrasting magnificently with his airy tone. "I'm just saying that if you're not going to pay attention to me then I guess I'll have to entertain myself. What's an A.I. with full access to all of the ship's faculties, from missiles to the sprinkler system, going to do?"

"You wouldn't—"

"Or maybe," he interrupted, false sweetness fading to something darker, "if my creator won't pay attention to me then I guess I could always hit up one of the agents." He could hear the razorblade smile in his voice. "They seem pretty nice for trained killers, don't you think?"

The squeal of wood on metal followed as the Director rose from his chair. "_That is enough_—"

And just as suddenly stopped.

What faltered his yell wasn't what Alpha had said. No, it was everything about his body language, what went _un_said, that finally caught his eye. The avid way he focused on the Director's reactions, the nature of the goading, the needling deliberately pulling him away from his work…

All for his attention.

Uncertainty weighted down his tongue, yet the man still found a way to phrase his question. "You're…lonely?"

"Yes I'm fucking lonely," he spat. Like a supernova he exploded, fractal light radiating from the sapphire hologram. He threw his hands in the air. "This ship is staffed by over four hundred personnel, from Standard Issue soldiers to licensed health practitioners to mechanical engineers. And do you know how may I'm allowed to interact with? _Two_, not including the only other A.I. aboard the _Mother!_" He began to pace. "Whenever I'm not running maintenance or helping outline your schedule, I have nothing to do, so I surf the Internet. I have literally reached the point in my existence where my life can be measured by the net worth of YouTube videos." Abruptly he stopped and whipped around to stare up at the Director, jabbing a finger in his direction. "I think I can sufficiently say that I have hit rock bottom, so _thank you_, Director, for sinking my battleship into the Mariana Trench. At least the inadequate lighting is less consistent than your _negligence_."

Being blindsided wasn't a sensation the Director was accustomed to, so when the impact finally hit, the understanding was as much a physical force as a car-crash. Speechlessness followed, and he could do little more than gape down at the seething on his desk, emanating hurt and betrayal.

"_I'm glad to see you're spending your time wisely by spying on my agents."_

Had that merely been him attempting to compensate for his isolation…?

He sank back into his chair and leant forward. "Why did you not speak of the matter sooner?"

Alpha snorted, arms folded across his chest. He looked away. "I figured you would eventually notice. I guess you really do need those glasses, because you're blind."

After a brief internal debate the Director consciously pushed his papers aside. "How are you feeling right now?"

"Oh, so now you care."

"This is a serious question, Alpha. If an A.I. is left to its own devices long enough while under duress it can enter a premature state of rampancy."

Like the flip of a switch anger was swapped with indignation. "I'm not _thinking_ myself to death." Alpha huffed. "And if anything is going to drive me crazy, it'll probably be the monotone paintjob. Seriously, did you ever consider a color scheme other than gray? There's an entire rainbow's worth of Skittles for you to choose from."

A hint of concern crept into his voice. "Alpha, please focus."

"I'm not rampant." He exhaled, in that second sounding tired. Vulnerable. "I just wish that my _creator _would take a few minutes out of his busy day to chat with me every now and then, and not just when he's worried that his precious tax-funded military hardware might get broken."

"I wasn't—" And knew—just as surely as he knew Florida would continue to submit requests for hanging plants in the common room—that he couldn't finish those words. "…My apologies, Alpha. I have been…stressed, as of late, and did not take your feelings into account."

"If the bottle of extra-strength aspirin on your nightstand is any indicator," muttered Alpha, though it sounded like a weary acknowledgement than a taunt.

Heavy silence followed. The pair continued to stare at each other uncertainly, the air of forced awkwardness hanging between them like a humid cloud. Loathe as the Director was to admit it, he…didn't know what to say, and instantly had to fight the reflex to reach up and rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, an idiosyncrasy he'd thought long-buried in his youth. If anything, the longer the quiet drew out, the more obvious it became that heart-to-hearts weren't a strong suit for either of them, and it showed. Painfully.

The apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree.

"Hey." To his surprise the Alpha took a step closer. "Are you…okay? I mean, it's not like I care or anything, but you've been averaging four-point-three hours of sleep a night, and you're showing signs of periorbital puffiness. Plus your blood pressure is 140/93. Just in case you forgot, I can't do CPR, so you might want to get that looked before you have a heart attack."

The non sequitur was so far left field that the Director felt his shoulders loosening, taking the tension and anger with it. Then the implication behind his words caught up, and he frowned. "You scanned me again, didn't you? That's an invasion of privacy, Alpha. I thought I told you to acquire a person's permission beforehand."

He made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "You mean the_ only_ _two_ persons I'm actually allowed to interact with, both of who already said no; but I ignored them anyway. 'Cause y'know. Reasons." Like a broken record the A.I. returned to his earlier topic. "Seriously though, you look like shit. You should see someone."

"I can't help but ponder the frightful headway we would make if you put as much effort into your job as you do undermining every command I give you."

"Speaking of my job"—Alpha indulged in a luxurious stretch—"I should probably inform you that Agent Maine was infighting with Agents Alabama and Oregon. I saw it over the surveillance feed."

_While I was spying on the agents_, the Director filled in the blanks, this time unable to stop himself from feeling the briefest pang of guilt. "I am fully aware." Here he nodded to the leaflet still off to the side. "The report I was reading before you interrupted my work concerned the disciplinary actions for said infighting."

"'Discipline'?" parroted the A.I. "What, like the stockades?"

"Hardly. I will be reprimanding him tomorrow morning, and starting then until the end of the second week, he will be on KP duty as punishment for the infraction."

"Something tells me the frequency of the infighting is just going to go up from there," Alpha observed, partly to himself, partly to his creator. A pause, before he glanced back at the Director, sounding hopeful. "Can I watch?"

"No."

"Oh, come on. Everyone loves a public lynching."

"No, Alpha."

"All right, whatever." In hindsight perhaps he should have let Alpha fixate on Maine, because the second it became clear that was no longer an option he immediately boomeranged back to the subject of his health. "But like I was saying, I think you should go to Recovery. Maybe get checked out."

Fingers slipped up to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. Quietly, he demurred, "I'm fine. There is no need to get yourself distracted with my health."

"I think you forgot a word in there," came the immediate rejoinder. "'Failing.' As in _failing_ health. You're stressed."

And perhaps while they were discussing the blatantly obvious they could go over the _A is for asshole _dogma his creation felt compelled to adhere to, the one the Director felt compelled to correct with a ruler. Diplomacy overruled his annoyance, faintly coupled with his surprise of the Alpha's concern for his wellbeing. "Such is the nature of my work," he chose to say instead. "It is an occupational hazard, one which I am accustomed to after so long."

"If you put your hand on a stove long enough you'll get 'accustomed' to that too. Doesn't mean you won't cause immense damage to yourself," Alpha reasoned, his logic infuriating in that the Director technically couldn't correct him. "All the more reason to _take a break."_

"Alpha—" he tried, and failed, to protest.

"Look, I even took the liberty of picking out a game!" He could all but hear the projectors in his room dry heaving under the strain of projecting the Alpha _and_ the holographic chessboard he conjured from the ether. Pale sapphire blue, much like himself, the replica materialized with a harmonic pop atop his desk, both sides' pieces already set. "See?" he crowed. "I _can_ think and plan ahead."

He'd always known that Alpha possessed holographic synthesis and could code his own renders, but this… It was a proficiency he hadn't expected to see for some time; _months_, at least. Every Artificial Intelligence Program had, to varying degrees, skills in holographic projection given that it was the basis for their own avatars. But developing their own separate holograms was an ability honed and refined over time, and depending on the construct and its function, ranged anywhere from 3D line graphs to _art_.

It didn't escape his attention, the time and effort Alpha must have invested into this pet project.

A chessboard was hardly art, of course; still, impressive nonetheless, even if it wasn't hard-light. The Director adjusted his glasses, well aware of Alpha's stare monitoring his reactions. "…I thought 'chess ranked only slightly above sticking forks into an outlet.'"

"Did I say that?" Alpha wondered, voice falsely coy. "Hmm. I think I might have deleted that memory."

"How convenient," he deadpanned. Reaching out a hand, he lightly skimmed over the hologram. Pixels shimmered beneath his touch like pinpricks of crystal dust. "You hate this game," he pointed out, an unspoken question hovering in the statement.

A gesture he was becoming rapidly accustomed to, the Director watched Alpha shrug. Dryly the A.I. said, "I had to get your attention somehow. It was either this, or grow a second head. Maybe I should have started out with Plan B from the start, seeing as you don't do subtlety too well."

"Very funny."

"I thought so, too." The Alpha held the Director's gaze, prolonging his own unspoken question. Likewise, the Director waited, his own mind straying back to the projection on his desk, working over again and again the patience Alpha had to have dredged up to concentrate long enough on such a task. What this must have meant to him to invest so much time and effort into a game that he hated.

The figure standing on his desk, growing tired with his silent contemplation, finally caved: "Please? Please, please, please, please, please? Just a game? One game? I swear, I'll let you get back to your paperwork once we're done, just take a break from the reports. They're not going anywhere. Besides, you owe me."

A bit of a reach on his part, but not a claim that was entirely untrue. One last time the Director hesitated and turned to the stack of papers leering at him from the corner of his desk.

"_One_ game," he told him firmly, not that it did anything to dampen Alpha's enthusiasm or his little whoop of joy. Sitting a little straighter, he cleared the space in front of him of his supplies and personal effects. "It should not take long to finish."

Alpha flared a little more brightly at the veiled insult. "Is that a challenge, old man?"

"Merely stating the facts," he assured, the gleam in his eyes not quite matching his words. "You have never been adept at this game."

He anticipated a sarcastic comeback that was par for the course. What he hadn't counted on was Alpha flickering for a split-second, followed by an exact recording of his own voice. "_Arrogance is a rather unbecoming trait_." His speech jarred back to normal. "Sound familiar?"

Maybe Alpha _would_ be better suited for espionage. "You recorded me?"

"For when we have conversations like this." If the Alpha could smirk, the Director was certain he would've. "I gotta say, that was a lot more gratifying than I thought it would be."

He simply shook his head. "Would you like to have the first move?"

"Nah, you take it. You'll need it."

"Very well." An outstretched hand went to pick up a pawn, and although there was no way to physically interact with it, the piece moved accordingly at his instructed, "Pawn to E4."

Fifteen minutes later, and he realized it wasn't just his holograms that Alpha had been perfecting.

He grimaced, as if forced to swallow something bitter. Like his pride. "You've been improving," the Director observed, ignoring the way his conscience bucked at the admission.

Humbleness wasn't a characteristic trait of his, and yet Alpha still lowered his head, partial gratitude, partial surprise at such an honest compliment. "I…," he hesitated, "might have practiced with F.I.L.S.S. once or twice."

An understatement, if their battlefield of soldiers circling each other was anything to go by. Lips pursed, he frowned down at the horse and bishop advancing on his king, the vanguard of pawns an obvious trap to lure out his own queen, and silently damned the A.I. for his stubbornness.

Never let it be said that Alpha was above commitment.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," the A.I. simpered, while positioning his rook closer to checkmate, "I had to use a mnemonic to remember how the pieces move: _The rook is a crook, cuts corners like taxes; the pawns are your bitch and take moves up their asses_—"

He tried to reprimand him, he really did, but in the end all the Director could muster was an exasperated shake of his head.

"Must everything go back to profanity with you?"

"Dude, you don't even _want_ to hear my acronym for the knight."

* * *

I'd like to take a second to tip my hat to SpoonyAzul's _Good Morning, Director_, the fic that heavily inspired the debut chapter for my story. If you haven't read it already then I heartily suggest taking a gander. It's quite entertaining.


	2. Flowers for Algernon

Life has been pretty depressing as of late, so I wrote something a little cathartic to help cope with that.

I've always had a soft spot for Florida, so I decided to indulge. Takes place shortly after the _Mother of Invention_ crash-lands on the planet with all of the sim bases, Season 10 to Blood Gulch Chronicles transition. Told using snap-shots/one-word prompts.

* * *

**Summary:** The ebb and flow effect, a study of, conducted by Freelancer Agent Florida/Captain Butch Flowers.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Flowers for Algernon**

**(one week)**

At first he thought time was their greatest enemy, because he couldn't find another explanation for how everything had fallen apart as quickly as it did.

**(trophic level)**

Being on the Leaderboard meant power. Power that came with a price. Only after you cut open your wrist, signed over your soul in blood, and personally shook hands with the devil did you realize that you couldn't afford your sanity and your hierarchy at the same time. And when the time came to repay that debt―as you crouched like a wounded animal, basked in the mechanical blue light of a metal tablet where so many others had come to worship―the Director always took away the things you needed most.

It was a lesson Florida learned when the summons came from the Counselor following the pandemonium of the "Freelancer Break-in," words whispered down empty halls by soldiers who were little more than nameless ghosts, forgotten faces unworthy of Leonard Church's presence. Wary eyes tracked his movements as the cobalt Freelancer made his way toward the bridge, suspicion and anxiety bleeding together in an oil spill of reds and blacks, like a fragmented kaleidoscope. He was accustomed to such emotional showcasing; it was negative attention that his teammates had been subjected to before, equal parts respect for their place on the food chain mixed with the fear of stepping out of line.

What he wasn't accustomed to was seeing that attention directed at him.

**(usurper)**

The second lesson he learned, as a flickering blue figure materialized over the dais, was that governments and militaries were just big gangs, and until now, he had never been considered important enough to know his gang's secrets.

**(lacuna)**

"…badly damaged in an unrelated conflict. We tried to download a backed up copy of his default programming to compensate for the loss of data. Unfortunately, we cannot account for the pieces that are missing."

The Director pronounced the word "missing" the same way he pronounced "Article 12" on Wash's service record: with an air of cold detachment.

**(permian-triassic)**

It only made sense that when everything finally came full circle it would not be into the raging inferno of a dying star that the _Mother of Invention_ plunged, but a forlorn moon of ice and decay. If a hell did exist then Sidewinder certainly epitomized it, a lonely wasteland on the precipice of time where the frozen mausoleum of their ship would be immortalized. A perfectly preserved reminder of all that could have been, and the last will and testament of a species fighting a losing battle against its own extinction.

**(we all fall down)**

One day, there were ten of them. Now Project Freelancer was missing states the same way Recovery was missing numbers.

_Ignorance was unforgivable_. A mantra they were all sculpted in the likeness of as the Director chiseled away at them, throwing out the excess he deemed inconsequential until all that remained was the perfect soldier―perfect in that every one of them was damaged yet able to still stand before their architect and hide their scars. So much a part of Florida now that he as he tried to fill in the gaps, to understand what had made the stone crumble into dust, he had a disturbingly hard time assuring himself that it was because he still cared and not because of trigger-reflexes. Still, the Freelancer turned over garden rocks and tried not cringe every time he found maggots crawling underneath.

They were all perfect at hiding their house keys, and Florida had never been good at picking locks.

Wyoming was still unconscious from his fight with York, concussed and lying in a hospital bed with an I.V. flushing saline into his vascular system, bandages swathing the left side of his head. Between meetings with internals and working alongside engineers in the ship's underbelly he'd only managed to visit his friend twice in the last three days. Two transverse fractures and minor hemorrhaging, according the clipboard that he definitely didn't steal from Medical Records when the surgeon had his back turned. Lucky, according to Gamma, when Florida's mother hen tendencies got the better of him, caved in and asked the A.I. how bad it had really been. At least―in between the sleepless nights of mindless worry and too-tight handholding at Wyoming's bedside―it gave him the time to research jokes. So (_if_, his thoughts unhelpfully supplied) _when_ Wyoming finally did wake up he would have something new to laugh at.

Even less than he'd seen of his friend he'd seen of the Dakotas. Rumor had it that they were under suspicion for their actions during the break-in; if by "actions" one was referring to their ambivalence, how neither assisted nor attempted to stop York and Texas. It took quite a bit of favor-trading and innocent sweet talk with a Standard Issue soldier to get the information he wanted, but when he did, all that Florida learned was upon arriving at the scene the twins were found in a deadlock. Long pent-up tensions anyone could have seen escalating solar systems away had, allegedly, spilled over. Once the dome shields and weapons were out of the picture the two had been carted into the Director's loving arms. From there the grapevine choked itself on its own ensnarement, and any information after that was conjecture and gossip. Rumors like "reassignment" and "new mission" kept circulating around, but that was it. What had caused them to focus on each other over the interlopers, or why neither had gone AWOL with Texas and York, no one seemed to know.

In the end, Florida wasn't sure if that lack of knowing sickened or relieved him.

Carolina was the current elephant in the room, a role previously held by C.T. (ironically, if someone was depraved enough to take the time to foil their falls). At whose hands… A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold trickled down his spine. Maine in his own right was bellicose and disinclined to follow protocol at times, but even he wasn't without honor.

Or so Florida had thought.

Pausing by one of the portholes in the corridor, the man gazed out onto the cliffside. Ridiculous to the point of parody, caution tape sectioned off the spot where more than one life had begun and ended. Recovery Agents could be seen huddled together in the relentless gale, three others crouching along the edge outfitted with carabiners and rope, more than likely making that perilous climb under threat of court martial.

One dead, three unaccounted for. And out of all the MIAs posted on the bulletin, the one that had Florida fearful for the civilian populace of this planet was the man held hostage by the voice in his head.

Meanwhile in an isolated ward Washington hovered on the cusp of permanent removal from active duty (_suspended until further notice_ where his name should have been), while the medics tried to disentangle his and Epsilon's jigsaw pieces and figure out which memories belonged to which puzzle. It didn't help that there were pieces missing.

**(lovecraft)**

The Director's most recent attempt to take the ethics codes and wipe his shoes on them was shown to him the same way a child was shown a glass tank full of fermented dead frogs and grafting lines. Not a reassuring mental image, especially with RESTRICTED AREA – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and biohazard warnings plastered on every square inch of wall.

Stepping into the dimly lit room sent goosebumps down his arms, enhanced by his own apprehension and the intentionally low temperatures behind the sealed containment doors. Three sets of footsteps echoed between the walls as Florida was guided toward the back of the lab flanked by his superiors. A piece of heavy machinery hissed steam at him as they drew pass; only immense self-control kept the man's heart from trying to tunnel out of his ribcage and burst through his chest. Again, he swallowed his discomfort, choosing to focus on his breathing and how his suit's temperature regulation systems were doing a poor job at stopping his breath from fogging the glass. It was amazing how his companions wore nothing more than cotton fabric and weren't suffering the same effects.

Somewhat cryptically, Florida wondered how much cold you had to slough through before you stopped feeling it.

Through the tinted visor he watched the Director step toward a panel, skeleton-key fingers punching in his authorization code. The lock pinged an affirmation back at him, and then _holy shit_ the wall began sliding and rearranging. Like a flat Rubik's cube, entire panels separated at the seams and retracted back to make way for a descending cryogenic chamber. Neon gas and pressurized air vapor swirled behind the opaque glass, obscuring any view of its contents. Morbid curiosity bypassed his self-preservation instincts, and Florida leaned forward. He reached out a hand over the head of the container and swiped away a long streak with his glove, trying to picture what kinds of frogs the Director had prepped for dissection.

An armored face stared back.

**(fall in line)**

They had a new assignment for him.

**(last one standing)**

And when Florida tried to get Wyoming to listen to him, to get him to cling to the wreckage so they could search the turbulent waters together for other survivors (_we've drifted so far_), Wyoming slammed Florida against the bulkhead. Not enough pressure to actually hurt him but enough to keep him pinned with his wrists locked firmly above his head. The other Freelancer loomed over him, his dark eyes the thunderhead that Florida had watched shipwreck their team.

"Stop it." Even fatigued and injured, with one arm in a sling, Wyoming could still immobilize Florida. Not that it mattered―he didn't try to struggle. "It's over. There's nothing left. Project Freelancer is finished."

"Wyoming…" _Reggie._

"You are not dragging me on some blasted rescue mission! We barely made it through the last one alive."

Not all of them did. This time he let a sliver of desperation crawl into his voice, flinching at how much that splinter hurt as it dug in. "We can still do something about it! It looks bad right now, but we still have our equipment, all we need is time and―"

A startled whimper drew from Florida as Wyoming's grip tightened.

"Get a hold of yourself." The harsh command and intense, hollow stare were like a slap in the face. Breath shallow and faint, he collapsed back into the wall, unresisting as Wyoming drew closer, his normally pleasant drawl nearly a growl. "My equipment is not the answer you're looking for. Even time has constraints, and it won't bring back the dead."

Something burned in the back of Florida's throat.

Perhaps some lingering loyalty to his comrade managed to find its way, because his face softened. Sharpness like a knife still cut through his features, but it at least blunted the edge somewhat. "There's nothing you can do, mate," he sighed, the words carrying a worn quality to them. Continuous repetition. "You're chasing ghosts."

Coming from the soldier who already looked half dead.

Calloused hands roughly parted from his own and the sniper stepped back. There was a hesitation in his stance, a parting comment weighing down across his shoulder blades. Finally Wyoming spoke: "Escape while you still can, Butch. Save yourself. Before you join them, too."

Without another word Wyoming turned and strode away.

It was the last time Florida saw his friend.

**(elegy)**

His things were tidily packed away in his single duffle and his quarters swept bare, a sterile, mechanical cleanliness to the former warm, homey qualities Florida had kept. Not wanting to dwell on the one-sided farewell, he hitched his belongings over his shoulder and exited the room, finding his new armor a tad chaffy and unbroken-in. Just before he proceeded to hangar bay six for departure, the Counselor interceded him, a manila envelope pushed into his hands.

"An acknowledgment of your contributions," explained the Counselor, in that automated drone, "while in the service."

Puzzled, he pried open the crease and tipped its contents into his upturned palm, watching as the pentagram pressed coldly into his skin.

He wondered, much later, as he turned the Medal of Honor over and over in his hands, if it even counted, seeing as other soldiers died to receive that award, and he'd only died on paper.

**(mantra)**

"…are absolutely stupid. Why would they give us _bright blue_ armor? That's like painting a giant sign on your back saying 'please shoot my ass.' Why not green? Or brown? Who the hell is running this army? God," Church thunked his helmet into his palm and sighed, "I can't believe I volunteered for this crap."

For an A.I. allegedly the victim of reverse Multiple Personality Disorder, he was surprisingly emotive.

Then again, that might have been an understatement. By his tally that was the thirty-seventh swear in six minutes. A new record.

"I'd like to think that Command color-coded us for our convenience. Differentiating yourself from the enemy is important. After all, we don't want to have any accidents of friendly fire," replied Florida as he lightly swung his legs against his seat.

Across from him the sim trooper shrugged, a dismissive noise catching in the back of his throat. Before he could give his two cents on battlefield etiquette the dropship violently lurched. Heavy tremors passed through the titanium-alloy hull, and Church swore as he frantically grabbed for the bar over his head and clung to it with metal-denting force.

"Sorry for the rough ride, fellas." How strange it was to hear the pilot's voice come out as masculine, with a heavy colony-world accent, than the familiar snappy one-liners. "We've hit a bit o' turbulence. Nothing this ship can't handle. Just strap yourselves on in back there and make yourselves comfy."

Four-Seven-Niner would never have let something like _turbulence_ impede her.

"And why the hell are they relocating me, anyway?" Church continued, simmering determinedly in his seat. "I mean, yeah, sure, the Sidewinder base got nailed, but they didn't have to up and move one guy for that. Could've just left me there in my personal icebox. It wasn't like I was in any danger. That Freelancer left me alive, and really, why isn't the space army more worried about a psycho-bitch with invisibility than a bunch of guys in red yelling at me from across the tundra? Seriously, I don't…"

The part of Florida not bound by his orders considered how the Alpha would react if he told him that his time spent on Sidewinder was a synthetic memory falsified to keep up the guise the Director had going.

And realized, with a pang of guilt, that the lie was kinder.

"Look on the bright side," he chirped, "at least it'll be a nice change of scenery. No more power outages from freak blizzards, no more fuel freezing over when the temperature drops below zero, and no more cancelled five a.m. morning laps around the base!"

Church gave him a very serious stare. "You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?"

In spite of himself Florida laughed. "Well, maybe a little," he confessed, ducking his head. "Remember, your captain always has your best interests at heart. So when he tells you that the pull-up bar is starting to look a little neglected and dusty…"

"I dial down the complaining to a minimum and start coughing up phlegm until he gives me a sick day," the cobalt soldier recited, verbatim. "And threaten to lick all of the doorknobs in the base until the desired effect is achieved."

"That wasn't the answer I was looking for, but that's close enough for now."

They sat in companionable silence for another five minutes.

On the bright side, at least he wouldn't be bored. Or alone.

"Red, huh? So what, they're communists?" He could hear the eye-roll in the sim trooper's tone. "No wonder Command wants us to kill them."

**(closure)**

"When Command said they were gonna send us to 'defend valuable strategic territory from the enemy,'" Tucker mused, "do you think they meant somewhere other than a _box canyon_ in the middle of nowhere?"

The echoes rebounded off of the cliffside from the powerful acoustics. Invisible voices shouted back until _nowhere_ whispered distantly at them from across the valley.

_Clink._ Tucker and Church peered over the ledge they were currently sitting on to watch the pebble clatter to the bottom.

"Or maybe"―_clink_―"they mixed up our flights, and right now some really confused quarrymen are trying to fight off alien hordes with pickaxes."

"Nope." This time the stone sailed an impressive forty feet through the air before the laws of physics pitched it forward, and it swan-dived toward the dirt. Church had a surprisingly good arm. "This is pretty much exactly how I imagined it. Flying out to the most undesirable piece of real estate in the galaxy and finding one other guy stationed here with the base a complete wreck."

To his credit, Tucker did sound contrite. Just not contrite enough for Church's tastes. "Hey, it's not like I was expecting company! Command didn't tell me they were sending you guys out here!"

"Seriously? You had empty soda bottles and used tissues all over the living room! Not even four feet from the trashcan."

"A guy has needs."

"And he has a trashcan. Which he _didn't bother to use_."

"That's not true."

"Tucker, using it to replace the broken table leg doesn't count."

"Are you really going to bitch about it? You're not the one cleaning up."

Almost immediately Church jolted upright and made a strangled hissing noise. "Don't jinx it! Captain Flowers has got, like, superhuman hearing. He'll find us."

Tucker pointed to the steadily-accumulating pile of rocks at the base of their cliff: "And you don't think he heard all of that?"

"…Shut up."

The momentary reprieve in conversation allowed the sounds of explosions and bickering to reach their end of the canyon. By day two both Blues had been conditioned to respond to the noise the same way Pavlov's dogs responded to a bell (the word "bell" replaced with "polka-style ranchera music").

"And to complete your all-expenses-taxed, unfurnished, one-room summer home," Church growled, "the neighborhood comes with its very own enemy bunker, filled with trigger-happy assholes. Welcome to Blood Gulch, prospective buyer!"

A low, impressed whistle came from the aqua soldier. "That was scary accurate. You should have done sales pitches for a living."

"Yeah, well," Church huffed, and winded back his arm, stone nestled in his palm like a catapult, "maybe once my contract is up I'll try selling cardboard boxes to hobos."

With an almighty heave the rock was launched into the sky. Gravity gave its leash a firm tug, yanking the rock right back down―

Nearly on Flowers' head.

The pair gulped.

"There you two are! I've been turning this place upside down trying to find you." Chipper tone in place, he peered up at them with a hand shielding his visor from the glare of the sun. "While I admire your commitment to practicing your grenade-throws, you should really be more careful. That could've hit me!"

Neither dare utter a sound, especially not when Flowers reached behind him and held out two brooms, one in each outstretched hand like bloodstained bayonets.

"I thought you two could use a break from your training and have some good old-fashioned commander-subordinate bonding. And what better way to build unit cohesion than by cleaning our new base together?"

"Shit."

"Damn it."

**(broken record)**

"You call that a flag? I've seen boxers blowing in the breeze worthier of being saluted than that sorry loincloth on a toothpick!"

"If you think it sucks so much then why the hell do you keep trying to steal it?"

"No Blue flag will fly in this canyon while I'm still alive and able to order my team to risk their lives destroying it!"

"Excellent plan, sir."

"'Excellent plan'? He's sending us to our deaths for a fucking dish towel! I'm not getting shot for that!"

"Either shot by the enemy or shot by your commanding officer. Take your pick, dirtbag."

"Hey, assholes, if you're going to stand and argue then _get off our front lawn_."

The vitriol became endearing after a while.

**(stranger in a strange land)**

It was easy to forget―with Flower's mind hardwired to automatically calculate the seconds between each footfall, to gauge the distance between his rifle sights and his next target, to pinpoint its trajectory, to estimate the time it would take for the bullet to cover the distance, to see soldier boys crumpling to the earth dead before they hit the ground―that he wasn't one of them.

It was even easier to remember when he realized that he'd already aligned his crosshairs on one of the Reds from less than a klik away, and his finger hovered over the sensitive trigger.

It would take a long time before he started using the viewfinder as a telescope, and not a horoscope for the other teams' deaths. For now it was all he could do to lower the weapon and not vomit from how sickened he felt.

**(pompeii)**

The rubble, or our sins?

**(help)**

Soft, panicked noises and the rustle of blankets drew Flowers out of his sleep.

Blinking exhaustion and bad memories out of his eyes, the man quietly sat up, pushing the comforter off himself in the same motion. Across the barracks Flowers could make out the vaguely-discernable shape of someone thrashing intermittently, entangling themselves in the sheets with every kick.

Tonight marked the second week stationed at FPS Outpost 1-A. A fortnight's worth of time adjusting from the shoot-dodge-counter-run-bleed-cacophony of his former job, to the monotonous, almost tranquil lull of Blood Gulch.

There were some things that were taking longer to adjust to. This wasn't the first time he was woken up in such a manner.

Footsteps light, the ex-Freelancer slipped from his bunk and padded over the floorspace, only stilling once when Tucker gave a pronounced snore. In three lengthy strides he reached Church's bed; cautiously, a hand reached out and gently grabbed Church's bicep, giving the (_biomechanical grown-in-a-petri-dish_) body a careful shake.

"Church? Church, wake up. Come on back, kid, it's okay. Easy."

As suddenly as a thunderclap Church bolted upright. Bright, panicked eyes darted around the room, glassy and only half-aware of the disorienting shift to reality. The damp sheen of perspiration shone on his skin, t-shirt sticking to his rapidly heaving chest. Finally the touch on his arm broke through his fight/flight reflex, and the sim trooper marginally relaxed, slumping against his pillow.

"Didn't mean to wake you up." The hoarse rasp rattled his parched throat.

Flowers subconsciously eased his grip, tracing reassuring circles with his thumb against the warm skin. For once Church didn't protest the contact. "It's okay. I've always been a light sleeper." Not technically a lie, anyway. "Another nightmare?" he asked. Concern thickened his voice.

"Yeah." The arm not being held reached up, fingers digging at his eyes and removing the last vestige of the dream. His features had regained some composure, but a wary, haunted shadow still clung to his face. Church frowned. "I can't remember it, though. I never can."

"All for the better," Flowers soothed, meaning it.

A beat of heavy silence.

"Thanks," Church mumbled at last.

"You're quite welcome." Hearing Church's heart rate slow to normal levels Flowers began to pull his hand away, as was par for the course with their routine. To his surprise the smaller soldier lashed at the appendage, almost before he could stop himself, and tugged the limb closer to his chest.

"Can you…" He averted his gaze. Shame and self-loathing soured the question. "Can you…stay? Just for a little bit?"

No hesitation. "Of course I can." Flowers was already making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed. As he settled in for the vigil Church cleared his throat.

"Just don't tell Tucker, okay?" Church pulled a face. "He'd never let me live it down."

Good-humoredly, Flowers smiled back, finding how easily the expression came to him as breathing or existing did. Overgrown hair was pushed from his face as he in jest lifted his index finger to his lips. Even in the dark he could picture Church rolling his eyes. "It'll be our little secret."

It was probably the least dangerous secret Flowers had.

**(odds are)**

And for the first time in a while, Flowers knew everything would be all right.

* * *

Next time I update you'll get something cute. Possibly with Theta. Possibly-definitely with Theta.


End file.
